


all good things now come from you

by illuminatedcities



Series: The Florence Verse [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Collars, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Shoe Kink, Threesome - F/M/M, d/s dynamics, foot worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes a deep breath. He looks at Grace, then back at Harold. "I want people to know where I belong. That I'm <i>yours.</i>" </p><p>A coda to "they say home is where the heart is set in stone".</p>
            </blockquote>





	all good things now come from you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "What Have I Done" by Anna Ternheim.

"The shirt collar should conceal your _actual_ collar nicely," Harold says, sliding the black leather band through his fingers.

John scrubs at his wet hair, a towel slung around his hips. Harold stands by the sink, he’s watching John in the bathroom mirror. On a whim, John gets out of the shower and leans in to press a kiss against the nape of Harold's neck, dripping water onto him.

"You're a nuisance," Harold says, and steps away from him to avoid getting soaked. John doesn't miss the way Harold's gaze travels down John's body, lingering on his naked stomach, the curve of his hips under the towel. "Dinner reservations are at seven thirty, you might want to put on something more appropriate until then."

"Okay, tactical question," Grace says from the doorway. She is wearing black lace panties and a matching bra and holds up two different dresses, one a silky green, the other one glittering with black and silver sequins. "Are we color-coordinating? Just in case _someone_ wants to match his pocket square to my dress."

Harold huffs. "The green one is lovely," he says.

"I like the other one," John says, just to be contrary. "It _sparkles._ "

Harold gives him a long-suffering glance.

"You make an excellent point, John," Grace says. Then she puts the dresses aside and strides over to John, snagging the leather collar out of Harold's hands on the way. "May I?"

John folds the towel over the side of the bathtub. He nods, feeling himself flush with anticipation. He bends down a little so Grace can slide the collar around his neck and fasten the clasp. Grace has curled her hair so it falls into her face in soft waves, and John wants to run his hands through it, feel it against his skin. He's suddenly very aware of being naked, and the temptation to pull her close is difficult to resist.

"Seven _thirty_ ," Harold says pointedly on his way out of the bathroom. John can see his smirk in the bathroom mirror, the sparkle of delight at watching them together.

Grace wiggles her eyebrows at John. "Must be tiring, being the only adult here." She adjusts the fit of the collar around John's neck. "Comfortable?"

John licks his lips. "Yes," he says. Without the towel, the ways in which wearing Harold's and Grace's collar is affecting him are pretty obvious. Grace looks down at his hardening cock, then she bites her lip and leans in to kiss him.

Harold walks back into the room with a pristine white shirt and a dark suit draped over his arm. "It is a mystery to me how the two of you ever get anything done when you're together," he says. He has put on cuff links and a waistcoat that matches the suit pants, his feet are still bare. Hie tie is dangling loosely around his neck.

"Well, _someone_ usually gets done at one point or another," Grace says, obviously delighted by her own pun, and Harold chuckles mildly, the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement.

It makes John want to kneel for him, nuzzle his hand, tell him how glad he is that Harold decided to share this with John, this private happiness.

Harold runs his hand over the shirt. "You should try it on, but I'm rather sure that with a tie around the shirt collar and the buttons all done up, nobody should be able to tell what you're wearing underneath."

John mutters something under his breath.

"What was that, darling?" Grace asks. She runs her hand over John's arm, lets her palm rest over his elbow. John would gladly curl up someplace and let her touch him forever.

"I said 'I wouldn't mind if people could tell that I'm wearing it'," John says. He blushes when he says it, the tips of his ears turning pink.

Harold disappears for a moment, probably to make sure that John's clothes are folded over the back of a chair somewhere and in no danger of getting wrinkled. When he walks back in, he steps closer until John could reach out and touch the fabric of his waistcoat. "Why not?" Harold asks, even though he probably already knows.

John takes a deep breath. He looks at Grace, then back at Harold. "I want people to know where I belong. That I'm _yours._ "

"You really are, aren't you," Grace says. She reaches for his hand, strokes his knuckles with her thumb.

\--

John manages to put on a pair of boxer briefs before Grace calls his name from the bedroom. She stands in front of the full-length mirror, fastening a slim gold hoop to her earlobe, the back of the sequined dress gaping open.

Grace turns around to him, grinning. "Some help with the zipper, please?" She gives him an amused look. "That's a rather bold choice of outfit, boxer shorts and a leather collar. I like it, it's so postmodern."

John carefully moves her hair out of the way and presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. "If Harold comes in and needs help with something any minute now, I might start to suspect a conspiracy."

He draws up the zipper, lets his fingers trail over the curve of Grace's spine, her pale skin. Grace shivers. "What kind of conspiracy?"

"One that tries to prevent me from putting any clothes on."

She laughs, and he runs a hand over her hair, lets it slide silky-smooth through his fingers.

"That's a conspiracy after my own taste," Grace says, turning around to face him. "Shoes, please, if you don't mind."

There's a pair of stiletto heels next to her closet, glossy black with a red-lacquer sole. John knows nothing about shoes, but he has an inkling that those have been expensive.

"A gift from Harold," Grace says, as if she's read his mind. John wouldn't put it past her, not with the way she knows how to put her hands on him to turn him incoherent. "I wasn't sure I could pull them off, at first. I'm not exactly a fashion-savvy New York socialite."

John crouches down to inspect them. They feel cool and sleek against his palm. He runs his thumb over the heel, suddenly struck by the mental image of Grace wearing them, resting her feet on his naked back. He wonders how the sole would feel pressing against his shoulder, pushing him down, the sharp bite of her heels digging into his skin. He blinks a few times, then holds out the shoe to her.

“ _You_ seem to like them,” Grace says. There is no trace of mocking in her voice, but John's face turns hot anyway.

She lifts her right foot and John closes his palm around her ankle, lifting it up so he can press a kiss to each individual toe. Grace inhales a shuddering breath. John strokes his thumb over the arch of her foot and sucks the big toe into his mouth, and Grace makes a soft sound and flushes all the way to her collarbones.

John looks up at her, fingers gently stroking her skin. “You're gorgeous,” he says, “You could pull off absolutely anything.”

He carefully slides the shoe on, and leans down to brush a kiss over her ankle.

Grace slides a hand through his hair, traces the gray in his temples with her fingertips. “Let's be late,” she suddenly says.

John kisses a line up her shin all the way to her knee.

“Harold!” Grace calls, grinning. “We're not going to dinner after all.”

–-

“Tell me this isn't better than – ah – having dinner at some fancy place,” Grace says, balancing her weight on her knees where she is riding Harold, her head tipped back in pleasure.

Harold makes a noncommittal noise, and she smiles and circles her hips in slow, languid movements. John kneels next to them on the mattress, waiting for them to tell him what to do. Grace is supporting her own weight, fucking herself on Harold's cock so he doesn't have to do any thrusting with his bad hip. She's so stunningly, incredibly beautiful taking her own pleasure that John can't make himself look away. Harold's hands are on her hips, steadying her, his fingertips caressing her skin.

Grace finds a good angle and gasps at the sensation. “John, darling,” she says, breathless, and John crawls over to them to kiss her shoulder and slip his hand between her legs. She moans and her rhythm turns more urgent when John strokes her clit. Then she reaches behind her to grasp at his shoulder, the back of his neck, her eyes screwed shut when she comes.

After, she keeps moving on top of Harold, bending over to kiss him, her hair falling into her face, brushing his throat. He comes with his hands on her shoulders, his orgasm only apparent by his sudden stillness and a small, relieved sigh. Grace climbs off him, snuggling close, and John leans down to mouth at Harold's cock, licking him clean until he's whimpering, almost soft in John's mouth.

John goes down on Grace, after, chasing the mingled taste of both her and Harold, and Grace sighs and slides her hands into his hair and tugs sharply, just the way he likes. He gets her off like that, his head between her legs, her head pillowed on Harold's shoulder. John humps the mattress to the sounds of pleasure she makes until he comes in his boxers. Grace calls him _darling_ and _love_ and Harold tells him that he's _so good, such a good boy,_ and John closes his eyes and lets the waves of affection roll over him, feels so safe and sheltered and loved.

–-

“We could order pizza,” Grace says, later, when they're all curled up together. She occupies the place in the middle, her head resting on Harold's chest, John spooned up against her. Grace reaches around to run her fingers over the leather collar still around John's neck. “Pepperoni mushroom would be _great_ right now.”

Ruby, who apparently finished her nap in the kitchen, appears at the foot of the bed, wagging her tail wildly.

“It is,” Harold says, drowsily, kissing the top of Grace's head.

John looks up at him, ignoring Ruby's insistent yapping. “What is?”

Ruby apparently gives up on catching anyone's attention, and curls up on her dog pillow with the general attitude of a teenager feeling misunderstood.

Harold crooks his finger and John crawls over to him, lets Harold run his fingernails over the nape of John's neck. John shudders blissfully against his thigh.

“It _is_ tiring,” Harold says. “Being the only adult here.”

Grace chuckles against his shoulder, and reaches down to cover Harold's hand with hers.

– fin


End file.
